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am a 



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poiner 



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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap. ,.. Copyright No. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERIC. . 




I 



I 



These verses of Mr. Bangs's have ap- 
peared from time to time in the various 
Harper Periodicals, and elsewhere. 




OUT IN THE COLD 



COBWEBS FROM A 
LIBRARY CORNER 

By 

John Kendrick Bangs 




NEW YORK AND LONDON 

HARPER &* BROTHERS 



MD C C C XC I X 



TWO COPIES RECEIVED. 



Library of CongrM* 

NOV 18 1809 T= 

ReglH.r of'C,pyr| fht<fc $>* ^ 




SECOND COPY* 



Copyright, 1899, by Harper & Brothers. 



All rights reserved. 






TO 
SISTER ANNE 



CONTENTS 



BOOKISH 

PAGE 

A Pessimistic View i 

The Master's Pen— A Confession . 3 

Bookworm Ballads (a Literary Feast) 5 

Ideas for Sale 8 

The Author's Boomerang . . . . 11 

To an Egotistical Biographer . . 12 

No Copyright Needed 13 

Ingredients of Greatness . . . . 14 

A Common Favorite 15 

Their Pens 17 

An Unsolved Problem. ..... 18 

The Bibliophile's Threat .... 19 

My Treasures 20 

A Poet's Fad 21 

The Poet Undone 22 

A Waning Muse 23 

Modesty 24 

My Lord the Book 25 

The Bibliomiser 26 

The " Collector" 27 

vii 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A Reader 28 

Fate! 29 

A Pleasing Thought 30 

Books vs. V Books," by a Bibliomaniac 31 

A Confession 33 

The Edition de Looks ..... 35 



WISE AND OTHERWISE 

Napolini's Error 41 

My Color 45 

Contentment in Nature 47 

The Heroic Gunner 49 

The Pathetic Tale of the Caddy 

Boy 52 

Garrulous Wisdom 56 

The Perjury of a Rejected Lover . 58 

Maid of Culture 59 

Not Perfect 60 

A City Dweller's Wish 61 

Where are They? 62 

Memories 64 

A Sad State 65 

Ad Astra per Otium 66 

Consolation 67 

Satisfaction on Reading "Not One 

Dissatisfied," by Walt Whitman 68 

To a Withered Rose 70 

The Worst of Enemies 71 

viii 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Jokes of the Night 72 

An Autumnal Romance 75 

The Country in July 76 

May 30, 1893 78 

The Curse of Wealth ..... 80 

The Rhyme of the Ancient Populist 83 

One of the Nameless Great ... 86 

In February Days 87 

A Change of Ambition 89 

Message from Mahatmas 91 

The Gold-seekers 95 

Ode to a Politician 98 

Some are Amateurs. 101 

ix 



BOOKISH 



A PESSIMISTIC VIEW 

A little bit of Thackeray, 

A little bit of Scott, 
A modicum of Dickens just 

To tangle up the plot, 
A paraphrase of Marryat, 

Another from Dumas — 
You ask me for a novel, sir, 

And I say, there you are. 

The pen is greater than the sword, 

Of that there is no doubt. 
The pen for me whene'er I wish 

An enemy to rout. 
A pen, a pad, and say a pint 

Of ink with which to scrawl, 
To put a foe to flight is all 

That's needed — truly all. 



A PESSIMISTIC VIEW 

But when it comes to making up 

A novel in these days 
You do not need a pen at a J 

To win the writer's bays. 
A pair of sharpened scissors and 

A wealth of pure white page 
Will do it jf you have at hand 

A pot of mucilage. 

So give to me the scissors keen. 

And give to me the glue, 
And I will fix a novel up 

That's sure to startle you. 
The good ideas have all been 
worked, 

But while we've gum and paste 
There shall be books and books 
and books 

To please the public taste. 

2 



THE MASTERS PEN— A 
CONFESSION 

In my collection famed of curios 
I have, as every bookman knows, 
A pen that Thackeray once used. 

To be amused, 
I thought I'd "take that pen in 

hand," 
And see what came of it — what 

grand 
Inspired lines 'twould write, 

One Sunday night. 
I dipped it in the ink, 
And tried to think, 

"Just what shall I indite?" 
And do you know, that pen went 

fairly mad ; 
A dreadful time with it I had. 
3 



THE MASTER'S PEN 

It spluttered, spattered, scratched, 

and blotted so, 
I had to give it up, you know. 
It really wouldn't work for me, 
And so I put it down ; but last 

night, after tea, 
I took it up again, 
And equally in vain. 

The hours sped ; 
I went to bed, 
And in my dreams the pen came 

up to me and said : 
" Here is the list of Asses who 

have tried 
To take up pens the master laid 

aside ; 
Look thou!" I looked, and lo ! — 

perhaps you've guessed — 
My name, like Abou Ben's, led all 

the rest ! 

4 



BOOKWORM BALLADS 

A LITERARY FEAST 

My Bookworm gave a dinner to a 

number of his set. 
I was not there — I say it to my 

very great regret. 
For they dined well, I fancy, if the 

menu that I saw 
Was followed as implicitly as one 

obeys the law. 

44 'Twill open," he observed to me, 

"with quatrains on the half. 
They go down easy ; then for soup" 

— it really made me laugh — 
"The poems of old Johnny Gay" — 

his words were rather rough — 
"They'll do quite well, for, after all, 

soup's thin and sloppy stuff. 
5 



BOOKWORM BALLADS 

" For fish, old Izaak Walton ; and 

to serve as an entree, 
I think some fixed-up morsel, say 

from James, or from Daudet ; 
The roast will be Charles Kingsley 

— there's a deal of beef in him. 
For sherbet/ T. B. Aldrich is just 

suited to my whim. 

"For game I'll have Boccaccio — 

he's quite the proper one ; 
He certainly is gamey, and a trifle 

underdone ; 
And for the salad, Addison, so fresh 

and crisp is he, 
With just a touch of Pope to give 

a tang to him, you see. 

"And then for cheese, Max Nordau, 

for I think you'll find right there 
Some things as strong and mushy 

as the best of Camembert ; 
And for dessert let Thackeray and 

O. Khayyam be brought, 
The which completes a dinner of 

most wondrous richness fraught. 
6 



BOOKWORM BALLADS 

■ 
"For olives and for almonds we 

can take the jokes of Punch — 
They're good enough for us, I 

think, to casually munch ; 
And through it all we'll quaff the 

wines that flow forever clear 
From Avon's vineyards in the heart 
of Will of Warwickshire." 
7 



IDEAS FOR SALE 

I'm in literary culture, and I've 

opened up a shop, 
Where I'd like ye, gents and ladies, 

if you're passing by to stop. 
Come and see my rich assortment 

of fine literary seed 
That I'm selling to the writers of 

full many a modern screed. 

I've bacilli for ten volumes for a 

dollar, in a bag — 
Not a single germ among 'em that's 

been ever known to drag. 
Not a single germ among 'em, if 

you see they're planted right, 
But will grow into a novel that 

they'll say is out of sight. 

I have motifs by the thousand, 
motifs sad and motifs gay. 

You can buy 'em by the dozen, or 
I'll serve 'em every day : 
8 



IDEAS FOR SALE 

I will serve 'em in the morning, as 
the milkman serves his wares ; 

I will serve 'em by the postman, 
or I'll leave 'em on your stairs. 

When you get down to your table 

with your head a vacuum, 
You can say unto your helpmeet, 

" Has that quart of ideas come 
That we ordered served here daily 

from that plot-man down the 

street?" 
And you'll find that I've been early 

my engagement to complete. 

Should you want a book of poems 
that will bring you into fame, 

Let me send a sample packet that 
will guarantee the same, 

Holding " Seeds of Thought from 
Byron, Herrick, Chaucer, Ten- 
nyson." 

Plant 'em deep, and keep 'em wa- 
tered, and you'll find the deed is 
done. 

9 



IDEAS FOR SALE 

I've a hundred comic packets that 

would make a Twain of Job ; 
I have " Seeds of Tales Narcotic ; 

Tales of Surgeons and the Probe." 
I've a most superb assortment, on 

the very cheapest terms, 
Done up carefully in tin-foil, of my 

A 1 "Trilby Germs." 

So perchance if you're ambitious 

in a literary line, 
Be as dull as e'er you can be, you 

will surely cut a shine, 
If you'll only take advantage of 

this opportunity, 
When you're passing by to stop in 

for a little chat with me. 

You may ask me, in conclusion, 
why I do not seek myself 

All the laurel and the glory of 
these seeds I sell for pelf. 

I will tell you, though the confi- 
dence I can't deny is rash, 

I'm a trifle long on laurels, and a 
little short of cash. 
10 



THE A UTHORS BOOMERANG 

He frowns with reason ; he has al- 
ways said, 
u The public has no knowledge 
of true art ; 
The book of worth these days 
would not be read ; 
"Tis trash not truth that goes 
upon the mart." 

And then was published his be- 
loved work — 
Some twenty-six editions it has 
had — 
And he his own conclusion can- 
not shirk : 
With such success as this it 
must be bad ! 
ii 



TO AN EGOTISTICAL BIOG- 
RAPHER 

I've read your story of your friend's 
fine life, 
But really, gentle sir, I fail to see, 
Why you have named it " Blank, 
and Jane his wife," 
When you had better called it 
simply u Me." 

12 



NO COPYRIGHT NEEDED 

I've penned a score of essays bright. 
In Addison's best style ; 

I've taken many a lofty flight, 
The Muses to beguile. 

Of novels I have written few — 
I think no more than ten ; 

With history I've had to do, 
Like several other men. 

And still, to my intense regret, 
Through all my woe and weal, 

I've never penned a volume yet, 
A foreigner would steal. 
13 



INGREDIENTS OF GREAT' 
NESS 

The style of man I'd like to be, 
If I could have my way, 

Would be a sort of pot-pourri 
Of Poe and Thackeray ; 

Of Horace, Edison, and Lamb ; 

Of Keats and Washington, 
Gerome and blest Omar Khayyam, 

And R. L. Stevenson ; 

Of Kipling and the Bard of Thrums, 
And Bonaparte the great — 

If I were these, I'd snap my thumbs 
Derisively at Fate. 
14 



A COMMON FA VORITE 

Charles Lamb is good, and so is 

Thackeray, 
And so's Jane Austen in her pretty 

way ; 
Charles Dickens, too, has pleased 

me quite a lot, 
As also have both Stevenson and 

Scott. 
I like Dumas and Balzac, and I 

think 
Lord Byron quite a dab at spread- 
ing ink; 
But on the whole, at home, across 

the sea, 
The author I like best is Mr. Me. 

A "first" of Elia filled my soul with 

A Meredith de luxe held no alloy. 
i5 



A COMMON FAVORITE 

And when I found Pendennis in 

the parts 
A throb of gladness stirred my heart 

of hearts. 
A richly pictured set of Avon's bard 
Upon my liking bounded pretty 

hard ; 
But none brought out that cloying 

sense of glee 
That came from that first book by 

Mr. Me. 

And so I beg you join me in the 

toast 
To him that I confess I love the most. 
He does not always do his level best, 
But no one lives who can survive 

that test. 
His work is queer, and some folks 

call it bad, 
And some aver 'tis but a passing 

fad; 
But I don't care, the fact remains 

that he 
Has won my admiration — dear old 

Me. 

16 



THEIR PENS 

The poet pens his odes and sonnets 
spruce 

With quills plucked from the or- 
dinary goose, 

While critics write their sharp in- 
cisive lines 

With quills snatched from the fret- 
ful porcupines. 
b 17 



AN UNSOLVED PROBLEM 

If Bacon wrote those grand inspir- 
ing lines 
At which alternately man weeps 
and laughs, 
Who was it penned those chiro- 
graphic vines 
We know these times as Shakes- 
peare's autographs? 
18 



THE BIBLIOPHILE'S THREA T 

If some one does not speedily in- 
dite 
A volume that is worthy of my 
shelf, 
I'll have to buy materials and 
write 
A novel and some poetry myself. 
19 



MY TREASURES 

My library o'erflows with treasures 
rare : 
Of " Dickens' firsts," a full, un- 
broken set ; 
And in a little nooklet off the 
stair 
The whole edition of my novel- 
ette. 

20 



A POET'S FAD 

He writes bad verse on principle, 
E'en though it does not sell. 

He thinks the plan original — 
So many folk write well. 
21 



THE POET UNDONE 

He was a poet born, but unkind 
Fate 
Once doomed him for his verses 
to be paid, 
Whereon he left the poet-born's 
estate 
And wrote like one who'd hap- 
pened to be made. 

22 



A WANING MUSE 

" Why art thou sad, Poeticus ?" 
said I. 
So blue was he I feared he would 
not speak. 
"Alas! I've lost my grip," was his 
reply — 
"I've writ but forty poems, sir, 
this week." 

23 



*' What hundred - are be 

think I said, 

i the 
pen. 
He thought a moment, then he 
raised his head : 
" I hardly know — I've written 
only ten." 

24 



MY LORD THE BOOK 

A book is an aristocrat : 

'Tis pampered — lives in state ; 

Stands on a shelf, with naught 
whereat 
To worry — lovely fate ! 

Enjoys the best of company ; 

And often — ay, 'tis so — 
Like much in aristocracy, 

Its title makes it go. 

25 



THE BIBLIOMISER 

He does not read at all, yet he 
doth hoard 

Rich books. In exile on his 
shelves they're stored ; 

And many a volume, sweet and 
good and true, 

Fails in the work that it was 
made to do. 

Why, e'en the dust they've caught 
since he began 

Would quite suffice to make a de- 
cent man ! 

26 



THE "COLLECTOR" 

I got a tome to-day, and I was 

glad to strike it, 
Because no other man can ever 

get one like it. 
'Tis poor, and badly print ; its 

meaning's Greek ; 
But what of that ? 'Tis mine, and 
it's unique. 
So Bah ! to others, 
Men and brothers — 
Bah ! and likewise Pooh ! 
I've got the best of you. 
Go sicken, die, and eke repine. 
That book you wanted — Gad! 
that's mine ! 
27 



A READER 

Daudet to him is e'er Dodett ; 

Dumas he calls Dumass ; 
But prithee do not you forget 

He's not at all an ass ; 

Because the books that he doth 
buy, 

That on his shelf do stand, 
Hold not one page his eagle eye 

Hath not completely scanned. 

And while this man's orthoepy 

May not be what it should, 

He knows what books contain, and 

he 

" Can quote 'em pretty good." 
28 



FATE! 

I peel that I am quite as smart 
As Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. 

I'm also every bit as bright 
As Walter Scott, the Scottish 
knight ; 

And in my own peculiar way 
I'm just as good as Thackeray. 

But, woe is me that it should be, 
They got here years ahead of me, 

And all the tales I would unfold 

By them already have been told. 

29 



A PLEASING THOUGHT 

They speak most truly who do say 
We have no writing-folk to-day 
Like those whose names, in days 

gone by, 
Upon the scroll of fame stood high. 
And when I think of Smollett's 

tales, 
Of waspish Pope's ill-natured rails, 
Of Fielding dull, of Sterne too free, 
Of Swift's uncurbed indecency, 
Of Dr. Johnson's bludgeon-wit, 
I must confess I'm glad of it! 
30 



BOOKS vs. "BOOKS" 

BY A BIBLIOMANIAC 

A volume's just received on vellum 

print. 
The book is worth the vellum — no 

more in't. 
But, as I search my head for 

thoughts, I find 
One fact embedded firmly in my 

mind. 

That's this, in short: while it no 

doubt may be 
Most pleasant for an author small 

to see 
A fine edition of his work put out, 
No man who's sane can ever really 

doubt 

3* 



BOOKS vs. -BOOKS" 

That products of his brain and pen 
can live 

Alone for that which they may 
haply give ! 

And though on vellum stiff the 
work appears, 

It cannot live throughout the after- 
years, 

Unless it has within its leaves some 

hint 
Of something further than the style 

of print 
And paper — give me Omar on mere 

waste, 
I'll choose it rather than some 

" bookish taste," 

Expended on a flimsy, whimsey tale, 

Put out to catch a whimsey, flimsy 
sale. 

I'd choose my Omar print on gro- 
cer's wraps 

Before the vellum books of " book- 
ish" chaps. 

32 



A CONFESS/ON 

My epic verse, my pet production, 
which I deemed 
Sufficient to advance me to the 
highest peak 
Of difficult Parnassus, goal of which 
I've dreamed 
For many a weary year, came 
back to me last week. 
The Editor I cursed, that he should 
stand between 
My dear ambition and my scarce- 
ly dearer self ; 
Whose unappreciation forced to 
blush unseen 
My one dear book, to gather dust 
upon my shelf. 
33 



A CONFESSION 

That night in sleep an Angel fair 
came to my side, 
And in her hand she held a scroll; 
in lines of flame 
The name of him I'd cursed was 
writ ; and when I cried, 
"What portent this?" the rare 
celestial dame 

Replied : 
" Read here, O Ingrate base, the 

name of him thou'st cursed. 
The very man of all men who 

should be the first 
Thy love and lasting gratitude to 

know, since he 
Still leaves the path Parnassian 

open unto thee — 
A path which thou with halting 

rhyme, most ill composed, 
Against thyself hast sought to keep 

forever closed. 
Read thou thy lines again!" 

Ah ! bitter was the cup. 
I read, withdrew the curse — and 
tore the epic up. 
34 



THE EDITION DE LOOKS 

How very close to truth these 

bookish men 
Can be when in their catalogues 

they pen 

The words descriptive of the wares 

they hold 
To tempt the book-man with his 

purse of gold! 

For instance, they have Dryden — 

splendid set — 
Which some poor wight would part 

with wealth to get. 

'Tis richly bound, its edges gilded 

—but- 
Hard fate — as Dryden well deserves 

— uncut ! 

35 



THE EDITION DE LOOKS 

For who these days would think 

to buy the screed 
Of dull old dusty Dryden just to 

read? 

In faith if his editions had been kept 
Amongst the rarities he'd ne'er 
have crept!. 

And then those pompous, over- 
whelming tomes 

You find so oft in overwhelming 
homes, 

No substance on a Whatman sur- 
face placed, 

In polished leather and in tooling 
cased, 

The gilded edges dazzling to the eye 
And flaunting all their charms so 
wantonly. 

These book -men, when they cata- 
logue their books, 
Call them in truth edition de luxe. 
36 



THE EDITION DE LOOKS 

That's all they have, most of 'em, 
just plain shape. 

With less pure wine than any un- 
ripe grape. 

But tomes that travel on their 

"looks" indeed 
Are only good for those who do 

not read ; 

And, like most people clad in gar- 
ments grand, 

Seem rather heavy for the average 
hand. 

37 



WISE AND OTHERWISE 



NAPOLINPS ERROR 

Pietro Napolini di Vendetta Pas- 

quarelle 
Deserted balmy Italy, the land 

that loved him well, 
And sailed for soft America, of 

wealth the very fount, 
To earn sufficient dollars there to 

make himself a count. 
Alas for poor Pietro ! he arrived in 

winter-time, 
And marvelled at the poet who 

observed in tripping rhyme 
How this New World was genial, 

and a sunny sort of clime. 

No chance had he for music that's 

developed by a crank, 
No chance had he at sculpture, 

nor a penny in the bank. 



NAPOLINT S ERROR 

The pea-nut trade was languid, 
and for him too full of risk ; 

He thought the work on railways 
for his blood was rather brisk. 

The sole profession left him to as- 
suage his stomach's woe, 

It struck him in meandering the 
city to and fro, 

Was surely that of shovelling away 
the rich man's snow. 



And then P. Napolini di Vendetta 

Pasquarelle 
Sought out a city thoroughfare, 

the swellest of the swell. 
He stole a shovel, and he found a 

broom he thought would do, 
Then rang the massive front-door 

bell of Stuyvesant Depew. 
" I wanta shov' da snow/' he said, 

when there at last appeared 
Fitzjohn Augustus Higgins, who in 

Birmingham was reared, 
A man by all in low estate much 

hated and much feared. 
42 



NAPOLINI'S ERROR 

" Go wi," said Fitz, with gesture 

bold. " Yer cahn't do nothink ere, 
Yer bloomin', hugly furriner !" he 

added, with a sneer. 
u Hi thinks as 'ow you dagoes is 

the cuss o' this 'ere land, 
With wuthy citizens like me 'most 

starved on every 'and. 
Hi vows hif I'd me wi at all hi'd 

order hout a troop, 
Hand send the bloomin' lot o' yer 

'ead over 'eels in soup. 
Git hout, yer nahsty grabber yer; 

hewacuate the stoop." 

Then when the snow had melted 

off, Fitzjohn Augustus went 
And humbly asked his master for 

two dollars that he'd spent 
In paying Napolini di Vendetta 

Pasquarelle ; 
While Nap went back to Italy, the 

land that loved him well, 
Convinced that when he sailed 

that time his country to for- 
sake, 

43 



NAPOLINF S ERROR 

He must have got aboard the ship 
when he was half awake, 

And got to London, not New York, 
by some most odd mistake. 
44 



MY COLOR 

My best-loved color? Well, I think 
I like 
A soft and tender dewy green — 
for grass. 
Sometimes a pink my fancy too will 
strike — 
In lobster purde or a Sauterne 
glass. 

Blue is a color, too, I greatly love. 

It's sort of satisfying to my eyes. 
'Tis their own color ; and I'm quite 
fond of 

This hue also for soft Italian skies. 

For blushes, give me red, nor hesi- 
tate 
To pile it on ; I like it good and 
strong 
C 45 



MY COLOR 

Upon the cheeks of her I call my 
Fate, 
The loveliest of all the lovely 
throng. 

On golden - yellow oft my fancy 
dwells. 
'Tis almost godlike, as it sparkles 
through 
The effervescent fizz ; and wondrous 
spells 
It casts o'er me when coined in 
dollars, too. 

Hence, friend, it is I cannot specify 
What hues particular my joys 
enhance. 
I like them all; their popularity 
At special times depends on cir- 
cumstance. 

46 



CONTENTMENT IN NA TURE 

I would not change my joys for 
those 
Of Emperors and Kings. 
What has my gentle friend the 

rose 
Told them, if aught, do you sup- 
pose — 
The rose that tells me things? 

What secrets have they had with 
trees ? 

What romps with grassy spears ? 
What know they of the mysteries 
Of butterflies and honey-bees, 

Who whisper in my ears? 

What says the sunbeam unto 
them? 
What tales have brooklets told ? 

47 



CONTENTMENT IN NATURE 

Is there within their diadem 
A single rival to the gem 
The dewy daisies hold ? 

What sympathy have they with 
birds 
Whose songs are songs of mine ? 
Do they e'er hear, as though in 

words 
'Twas lisped, the message of the 
herds 
Of grazing, lowing kine? 

Ah no ! Give me no lofty throne, 

But just what Nature yields. 
Let me but wander on, alone 
If need be, so that all my own 
Are woods and dales and fields. 
48 



THE HEROIC GUNNER 

When the order was given to withdraw from battle 
for breakfast, one of the gun -captains, a privileged 
character, begged Commodore Dewey to let them keep 
on fighting until "we've wiped 'em out." — War Anec- 
dote in Daily Paper. 

At the battle of Manila, 

In the un-Pacific sea, 
Stood a gunner with his mad up 

Just as far as it could be — 
Stood a gunner brave and ready 

For the hated enemy. 

Near the Isles of Philopena 
Raged the battle all the morn, 

And the plucky Spanish sailors 
By the shot and shell were torn ; 

And the flag that floated o'er them 
To oblivion was borne. 
49 



THE HEROIC GUNNER 

Every cannon belched projectiles, 
Every cannon breathed forth hell, 

Every cannon mowed the foeman 
From the deck into the swell, 

When amid the din of battle 
Rang the silvery breakfast-bell. 

" Stop your shooting ! Come to 
breakfast !" 

Cried the gallant Commodore. 
" After eating we will let them 

Have a rousing old encore. 
Stow your lanyards, O my Jackies ; 

Let the cannon cease to roar." 

Then upspake the fighting gunner: 
" Dewey, don't, I beg of you. 

What's the use of drinking coffee 
Till we've put this scrimmage 
through? 

If there's any one who's hungry, 
Won't this Spanish omelet do ? 

"Farragut would not have done it 
When through Mobile Bay he 
sped. 

50 



THE HEROIC GUNNER 

Why then, Dewey, should we break- 
fast 
Till we've plunked 'em full of 
lead? 
Let our motto be as his was — 
Damn the Jishballs! Go ahead!" 
5i 



THE PATHETIC TALE OF 
THE CADDY BOY 

" Come here," said I, " oh caddy boy, 
and tell me how it haps 

You cling so fast unto these links ; 
not like the other chaps, 

Who like to dally on the streets 
and play the game of craps? 

" Is it that you enjoy the work of 

carrying a bag 
While others speed the festive ball 

o'er valley, hill, and crag? 
And do your spirits never seem to 

falter or to flag? 

"I've watched you many a day, my 
lad, and puzzled o'er the fact 

That you are so attentive to the 
game ; your every act 
52 



PA THE TIC TALE OF CADD Y BOY 

Doth indicate perfection — there's 
been nothing you have lacked. 



"And I would know just why it is 
that you so perfect seem — 

In all my golfing days you've been 
the very brightest gleam — 

Or am I lying home in bed and 
are you just a dream?" 

"Oh, sir," said he, " I caddy here 

because I love my | 
I cling unto these gladsome links 

because I love my ma; 
In short, I love my parents, sir, and 

these my reasons are : 

" 'Twas but a year ago, good sir, 
when first this ancient sport 

Came in the portals of our home — 
home of the sweetest sort ; 

When golf came through the win- 
dow, sir, why home went through 
the port. 

53 



PATHETIC TALE OF CADDY BOY 

" My father first he took it up, 
and many a weary night 

My mother with us children waited 
up by candle-light, 

In hopes that he'd return and free 
us from our lonely plight. 

" Then mother she went after him 
— alas ! that it should be — 

And shortly learned the game her- 
self — she plays it famously — 

Which left us children orphans, I 
and all my brothers three. 

" They play it here, they play it 
there, they play it everywhere ; 

No matter what the weather, be it 
wet or be it fair, 

And for the cares of golf they've 
dropped their every other care. 

"And so it is that we poor lads 
are forced to leave our home, 

And join the ranks of caddy boys 
who o'er the fields do roam 
54 



PA THE TIC TALE OF CADD Y BOY 

In search of little golf-balls in the 
sunlight and the gloam ; 

" For some day we are hoping that 

our eyes again will see 
Our most beloved parents on some 

putting-green or tee ; 
A sight to gladden all our hearts if 

it should ever be." 

And lo — I looked upon that boy — 
his face was sweet and sad, 

And to my heart there came a 
twinge, for in that little lad 

I recognized my eldest son — 1 was 
that wicked dad ! 

And now together we are out on 

links at home and far. 
He and his three small brothers 

with their shamed, repentant pa, 
A-looking here and looking there 

to find their dear mamma. 
55 



GARRULOUS WISDOM 

I know a wondrous man — my 
neighbor he ; 
He's ripe in years, and great in 
understanding. 
He's versed in art, and in philos- 
ophy 
He shows a mind that's verily 
commanding. 

He'll stand before a painting, and 
without 
A single instant's thought, or 
hesitation, 
He'll tell the painter's name, nor 
any doubt 
Is there he gives the proper in- 
formation. 

56 



GARRULOUS WISDOM 

The rocks, the hills and valleys, 
hold from him 
No secret that is past a man's 
revealing. 
He knows why some are stout and 
others slim ; 
He comprehends all kinds of hu- 
man feeling. 

The records of the stars he knows, 
and each 
Romance that round about the 
heavens lingers. 
At dinner-time he oft delights to 
preach 
On which was made the first, or 
forks or fingers. 

Indeed, all things he knows, or 
high or low — 
The things that fly on wing, or 
go a-walking — 
Except one thing he never seems 
to know, 
And that's when he should stop 
his endless talking. 
57 



THE PERJURY OF A RE- 
JECTED LOVER 

When I was twenty-one, I swore, 

If I should ever wed, 
The maiden that I should adore 

Should have a classic head ; 
Should have a form quite Juno- 
esque ; 

A manner full of grace ; 
A wealth of hirsute picturesque 

Above a piquant face. 

But I, alas ! am perjured, for 

I've wed a dumpy lass 
I much despised in days of yore, 

Of quite the plainest class, 
Because each maiden of my dream, 

Whose favor I did seek, 
Was so opposed unto my scheme 

I married Jane in pique. 
58 



MAID OF CULTURE 

Maid of culture, ere we part, 
Since we've talked of letters, art, 
Science, faith, and hypnotism, 
And 'most every other ism, 
When you wrote, a while ago, 
%ur\ /xov, (rag dya7rd>, 

Let me tell you this, my dear : 
Though your lettering was clear, 
Though the ancient sages Greek 
Would be glad to hear you speak, 
They would be replete with woe 

At your /xou, (tUq aya7r(i. 

For, dear maiden most astute, 
You have placed the mark acute 
O'er omega. Take your specs. 
See ? It should be circumflex. 
Still I love you, even though 
You have written ayaww. 
59 



NOT PERFECT 

Her eyes are blue — a lovely hue 
For eyes ; her cheeks are pink, 
And for the cheek, 'twixt me and 

you, 
That color's right, I think. 

Her fingers taper prettily, 

Her teeth are white as pearls — 

Her hands seem softer far to me 
Than any other girl's. 

Her figure's trim — it is petite — 
I like them just that way, 

And truly, maiden half so sweet 
You'd not find every day. 

And yet, alas ! she's not my choice, 

This creature of my rhyme — 
Because her soft and rich -toned 
voice 
Is going all the time. 
60 



A CITY DWELLERS WISH 

I love the leaf of the old oak-tree, 
I love the gum of the spruce, 

I love the bark of the hickory, 
And I love the maple's juice. 

On the walnut's grain I fondly dote, 
On the cherry's fruit I'd dine, 

And I love to lie in a narrow boat, 
And scent the odor of pine. 

Ah, me ! how I wish some power 
grand 
Would invent some single tree 
With all these points well devel- 
oped, and 
Would send that tree to me ! 

I'd plant it deep in the jardiniere 

That stands in this flat of mine ; 

I'd give it the sweetest, tenderest 

care, 

And water its roots with wine. 

61 



WHERE ARE THEY? 

What has become of the cast-off 
coats 
That covered Will Shakespeare's 
back? 
What has become of the old row- 
boats 
Of Kidd and his pirate pack? 

Where are the scarfs that Lord By- 
ron wore? 
Where are poor Shelley's cuffs? 
What has become of that wondrous 
store 
Of Queen Elizabeth's ruffs ? 

Where are the slippers of Ferdi- 
nand? 
Where are Marc Antony's clothes ? 
62 



WHERE ARE THEY? 

Where are the gloves from Antoi- 
nette's hand ? 
Where Oliver Goldsmith's hose ? 

I do not search for the ships of 
Tyre— 

The grave of Whittington's cat 
Would sooner set my spirit on fire — 

Or even Beau Brummel's hat. 

And when I reflect that there are 
spots 

In the world that I can't find, 
Where lie these same identical lots, 

And many of this same kind, 

I'm tempted to give a store of gold 

To him that will bring to me 
A glass, Earth's mysteries to un- 
fold, 
And show me where these things 
be. 

63 



MEMORIES 

Yon maiden once a jester did 
adore, 
Who early died and in the 
church-yard sleeps. 
Once in a while she reads his best 
jokes o'er 
And sits her down and madly, 
sorely weeps. 
64 



A SAD STATE 

I know a man in Real Estate, 
Whose pride of self's sublime. 

He'd like to be a poet great 
But "can't afford the time." 
65 



AD ASTRA PER OTIUM 

As I read over old John Dryden's 
verse, 
The rhymes of men like William 
Blake, and Gay, 
The stuff that helped fill Edmund 
Waller's purse, 
And that which placed on Mar- 
veil's brow the bay, 

It doth appear to me that in those 
times 
The Muses quaffed not sparkling 
wine, but grog, 
And that to grow immortal through 
one's rhymes 
Was 'bout as hard as falling off 
a log. 

66 



CONSOLA TION 

Shakespeare was not accounted 
great 

When good Queen Bess ruled Eng- 
land's state, 

So why should I to-day repine 

Because the laurel is not mine? 

Perhaps in twenty-ninety-three 
Folks will begin to talk of me, 
And somewhere statues may be 

built 
Of me, in bronze, perhaps in gilt, 

And sages full of quips and quirks 
Will wonder if I wrote my works. 
So why should I repine to-day 
Because my brow wears not the 
bay? 

67 



SATISFACTION 

ON READING "NOT ONE DISSATIS- 
FIED," BY WALT WHITMAN 

God spare the day when I am satis- 
fied! 
Enough is truly likened to a feast 

that leaves man satiate. 
The sluggishness of fulness comes 

apace; the dulness of a mind 

that knows all things. 
The lack of every sweet desire; no 

new sensation for the soul! 
To want no more? 
What vile estate is that? 
What holds the morrow for the soul 

that's satisfied? 
What holds the future for the mind 

content? 
Is aspiration worthless? 
68 



SATISFACTION 

Is much -abused ambition then so 
vile? 

What is the essence of the joy of 
living? 

Must yesterday, to-morrow, and to- 
day all be the same, 

With nothing to be hoped for? 

Is not a soul athirst a joyous thing? 

Where lies content to him whose 
eye doth rest on higher things? 

What satiation can compare to hope? 

Yet who among the satisfied hath 
need of hope? 

What can he hope for if he's satis- 
fied? 

"Tis but conceit, and nothing more, 
to prate of satisfaction ! 

God spare the day when I am satis- 
fied ! 

I do not want the earth, 

Yet nothing less will leave me quite 
content; 

And once 'tis mine, 

I'm very sure you'll find me roam- 
ing off 

After the universe ! 
69 



TO A WITHERED ROSE 



Thy span of life was all too short — 
A week or two at best — 

From budding -time, through blos- 
soming, 
To withering and rest. 






Yet compensation hast thou — aye! — 

For all thy little woes ; 
For was it not thy happy lot 

To live and die a rose? 
70 



THE WORST OF ENEMIES 

I do not fear an enemy 

Who all his days hath hated me. 

I do not bother o'er a foe 
Whose name and face I do not 
know. 

I mind me not the small attack 
Of him who bites behind my back: 

But Heaven help me to the end 
'Gainst that one who was once my 
friend. 

7i 



JOKES OF THE NIGHT 

Blessed jokes of my dreams ! Your 
praises I'd sing. 

No mirth can compare to the mirth 
that you bring. 

I've read London Punch from be- 
ginning to end, 

On all comic papers much money 
I spend, 

But naught that is in them can 
ever seem bright 

Beside the rich jokes that I dream 
of at night. 

How I laugh at those jests of my 

brain when at rest, 
The gladdest and merriest, sweetest 

and best! 

72 



JOKES OF THE NIGHT 

And how, when I wake in the morn- 
ing and try 

To call them to mind, oh how bash- 
ful, how shy 

They seem, how they scatter and 
hide out of sight — 

Those jokes of my dreamings, those 
jests of the night ! 

Take the one that came to me to- 
day just at dawn: 

The Cable -Car turns and remarks 
to the Prawn, 

" The Crowbar is seasick ; but then 
what of that, 

As long as the Camel won't wear 
a silk hat?" 

I laughed — why, I laughed till my 
wife had a fright 

For fear I'd go wild from that joke 
of the night. 

And they're all much like that one 

— elusive enough, 
Yet full of facetious, hilarious 

stuff— 

73 



JOKES OF THE NIGHT 

Stuff past comprehension, stuff no 

man dares tell; 
For nocturnal jests, e'en told ever 

so well — 
"Tis odd it should be so — are not 

often bright, 
Except to the dreamer who dreams 

them at night. 
74 



AN AUTUMNAL ROMANCE 

A leaf fell in love with the soft 
green lawn, 
He deemed her the sweetest and 
best, 
And then on a dreary November 
dawn 
He withered and died on her 
breast. 

75 



THE COUNTRY IN JULY 

Where glistening in the softness 
of the night 

The vagrant will-o'-wisps do greet 
the sight ; 

Where fragrance baffling permeates 
the breeze 

That gently flouts the grasses and 
the trees; 

Where every flying thing doth seem 
to be 

Instinct with sweetly sensuous mel- 
ody; 

Where hills and dales assume their 
warmest phase, 

With here and there a scarf of opal 
haze 

To soften their luxuriant attire ; 

Where one can almost hear the el- 
fin choir 

76 



THE CO UN TRY IN JULY 

Across the meadow -land, down in 

the wood, 
In songs of gladness — there are all 

things good. 
Ah ! ye who seek the spot where 

joys abide, 
Awake ! Awake ! Seek out the 

country-side, 
And through the blue -gray July 

haze see life 
All free from care, from sorrow, and 

from strife. 

77 



MAY 30, iS 9 j 

It seemed to be but chance, yet 

who shall say 
That 'twas not part of Nature's 

own sweet way, 

That on the field where once the 

cannon's breath 
Lay many a hero cold and stark 

in death, 

Some little children, in the after- 
years, 

Had come to play among the grassy 
spears, 

And, all unheeding, when their romp 

was done, 
Had left a wreath of wild flowers 

over one 

78 



MAY jo, i8gj 

Who fought to save his country, 
and whose lot 

It was to die unknown and rest for- 
got? 

79 



THE CURSE OF WEALTH 

"What shall I put my dollars in?" 
he asked, in wild dismay. 
I've fifty thousand of 'em, and 
I'd like to keep 'em too. 

I'd like to put them by to serve 
some future rainy day, 
But in these times of queer fi- 
nance what can a fellow do? 

"A railway bond is picturesque, 
and the supply is great, 
But strangely like a novel that 
upon occasion drags, 
Of which the critics of the time in 
hackneyed phrases state, 
'The work has certain value, but 
the int'rest often flags !' 
80 



THE CURSE OF WEALTH 

" The same is true of railway shares, 
'tis safer to invest 
In ploughshares, so it seems to 
me, in this unhappy time. 
Some think great wealth a blessing, 
but it cannot stand the test ; 
He's happier by far than I who's 
but a single dime. 

" He does not lie awake at night 
and fret and fume, to think 
Of bank officials on a spree with 
what he's toiled to get. 
He is not driven by his woe quite 
to the verge of drink 
By wondering if his balance in 
the bank remains there yet. 

" He does not pick the paper up 
in terror every night 
To see if V.B.G. is up, or P.D.Q. 
is down ; 
It does not fill his anxious soul 
with nerve-destroying fright 
To hear the Wall Street rumors 
that are flying 'bout the town. 
81 



THE CURSE OF WEALTH 

"Ah, better had I ta'en that cash 
that I have skimped to save, 
And spent it on my living and 
my pleasures day by day! 
I would not now be goaded nigh 
unto my waiting grave, 
By wondering how the deuce to 
keep those dollars mine for aye. 

" I'd not be bankrupt in my nerves 
and prematurely old, 
These golden shackles must be 
burst ; I must again be free. 
What Ho without ! My ducats — 
to the winds with all my gold, 
That I may once again enjoy 
the rest of poverty." 
82 






THE RHYME OF THE AN- 
CIENT POPULIST 

It was an ancient populist, 

His beard was long and gray, 
And punctuated by his fist, 

He had his little say : 
"This is the age of gold/' he said, 
" 'Tis gold for butter, gold for bread, 
Gold for bonds and gold for fun ; 
Gold for all things 'neath the sun." 
Then with a smile 

He shook his head. 
"Just wait awhile," 
He slyly said. 
" When we get in and run the State 
We'll tackle gold, we'll legislate. 
We'll pass an act 
And make a fact 
By which these gold -bugs will be 
whacked 

83 



THE ANCIENT POPULIST 

Till they're as cold 
As is their gold. 
We're going to make a statute law 

by which 'twill be decreed 
That standards are abolished, for a 

standard favors greed. 
This is the country of the free, and 

free this land shall be 
As soon as we the * people ' have 

our opportunity, 
And he who has to pay a bill 
Can pay in whate'er suits his will. 
The tailor? Let him take his coats 
And pay his notes ; 
Or if perchance 
He's long on pants, 
Let trousers be 
His £. s. d. 
The baker ! Let his landlord take 

His rent in cake, 
Or anything the man can bake. 
And if a plumber wants a crumb, 
He may unto the baker come 

And plumb. 
A joker needing hats or cloaks 
Can go and pay for them with jokes, 
84 







THE ANCIENT POPULIST 

And so on : what a fellow's got 
Shall pay for things that he has not. 
If beggers' rags were cash, you'd 

see 
No longer any beggary; 
In short, there'd be no poverty." 
"A splendid scheme," quoth I; "but 

stay ! 
What of the nation's credit, pray?" 
" Ha-ha ! ho-ho !" he loudly roared. 
"We'll leave that problem to the 

Lord. 
And if He fails to keep us straight 
Once more we'll have to legislate, 
And so create, 
Confounding greed, 
As much of credit as we need." 
85 



ONE OF THE NAMELESS 
GREAT 

I knew a man who died in days of 
yore, . 
To whom no monument is like 
to rise; 
And yet there never lived a mortal 
more 
Deserving of a shaft to pierce 
the skies. 

His chiefest wish strong friend- 
ships was to make; 
He cared but little for this poor 
world's pelf; 
He shared his joys with every one 
who'd take, 
And kept his sorrows strictly to 
himself. 
f 86 



IN FEBRUARY DAYS 

Fair Nature, like the mother of a 
wayward child 
Who needs must chide the off- 
spring of her heart, 
Disguiseth for a season all the sweet 
and mild 
Maternal softness for an austere 
part. 

And 'neath her frown the errant 
earth in winter seems 
Prostrate to lie, and petulant of 
mood; 
Restrained in icy fetters all the 
babbling streams, 
Like naughty babes who're learn- 
ing to be good. 
f 87 



IN FEBR UARY DA YS 

Then, in this second month, most 
motherlike again, 
The frown assumed gives now 
and then a place 
To soft indulgent glances, lessening 
the pain, 
And hints of spring and pardon 
light her face. 



A CHANGE OF AMBITION 

Horatius at the bridge, and he 
Who fought at old Thermopylae; 

Great Samson and his potent bone 
By which the Philistines were 
slone ; 

Small David with his wondrous 

aim 
That did for him of giant frame; 

J. Caesar in his Gallic scraps 
That made him lord of other chaps ; 

Sweet William, called the Con- 
queror, 
Who made the Briton sick of war; 
89 



A CHANGE OF AMBITION 

King Hal the Fifth, who nobly 

fought 
And thrashed the foe at Agincourt ; 

Old Bonaparte, and Washington, 
And Frederick, and Wellington, 

Decatur, Nelson, Fighting Joe, 
And Farragut, and Grant, and, oh, 

A thousand other heroes I 
Have wished I were in days gone 
by- 

Can take their laurels from my 

door, 
For I don't want 'em any more. 

The truth will out; it can't be hid; 
The doughty deed that Dewey did, 

In that far distant Spanish sea, 
Is really good enough for me. 

The grammar's bad, but, O my son, 

I wish I'd did what Dewey done ! 

90 



MESSAGE FROM MAHAT- 
MAS 

Onset Bay, Massachusetts, May 24, 18— .— -The- 
osophists and others at Onset Bay Camp Grounds have 
been greatly excited of late by a message which has 
been received from the Mahatmas, Koot Hoomi, and 
his partner, who are summering in the desert of Gobi. 
The message is of considerable length, and contains 
much that is purely personal. — Daily Newspaper. 

Sound the timbrel, beat the drum ! 

Word from the Mahatma's come. 

Straight from Hoomi Koot & Co. 

Comes the note to us below, 

Full of joy and gossiping. 

Hoomi Koot is summering 

In the desert waste of Gobi, 

In a cottage of adobe. 

All the little Koots are well. 

Tommy Koot has learned to spell. 

Mrs. Koot is busy on 

Papers on "The Great Anon/ 5 



MESSAGE FROM M AH ATM AS 

Which by special cable soon, 
From her workshop in the moon, 
Will be sent to us below 
By grand Hoomi Koot & Co. 

We are told that Maggie Koot 
Looks well in her golfing suit; 
And her brand-new Astral Bike 
Is the best they've seen this cike — 
Cike is slang for cycle, so 
I have learned from Koot & Co. 
Soon she's going to take a run 
Out from Gobi to the sun, 
After which she thinks to race 
For the Championship of Space, 
And a trophy given by 
The Grand High Pasupati. 

Baby Koot has learned to walk, 
And likewise, 'tis said, to talk; 
But, to Mrs. Koot's dismay, 
Seems to have a funny way : 
Full of questions, "Why and How," 
All about the sacred cow. 
Questions of a flippant ilk, 
Like "Is Buddha made of milk?" 



MESSAGE FROM M AH ATM AS 

Questions void of answers spite 
Of his parents' second sight. 
What to do with Baby Koot 
Worries all the whole cahoot. 

Finally the message ends 
With best love to all our friends. 
Give our enemies a twist. 
Let each true theoso-fist 
Strike a thunder-hitting blow 
For the firm of Koot & Co.; 
Strike till black is every eye 
Doubting our theosophy. 
And impress on every tribe 
Now's the season to subscribe. 
Guard against the coming storm ; 
Keep our astral bodies warm. 
Give us bonnets for the head ; 
Keep our spirit stomachs fed. 
Let your glad remittance go 
Out to Hoomi Koot & Co., 
Through their Agents on the earth, 
Men and women full of worth; 
And when next a message comes 
From the Koots down to their 



chums. 



93 



MESSAGE FROM M AH ATM AS 

Those who've paid their money 

down 
Will receive a harp and crown. 

Step up lively ! now's the time 
For your nickel and your dime, 
To provide for winter suits 
For the grand Mahatma Koots. 
Furthermore, be not too brash, 
Send it up in solid cash. 
Astral money, it may be, 
Circulates in theory ; 
But 'tis best to give us cold, 
Bilious, drossy, filthy gold. 

All our blessings to you go. 
Yours, for health, 

H. Koots & Co. 
94 



THE GOLD-SEEKERS 

Gold, gold, gold ! 
What care we for hunger and cold? 
What care we for the moil and strife, 
Or the thousands of foes to health 

and life, 
When there's gold for the mighty, 

and gold for the meek, 
And gold for whoever shall dare 

to seek ? 
Untold 
Is the gold ; 
And it lies in the reach of the man 

that's bold : 
In the hands of the man who dares 

to face 
The death in the blast, that bl 

apace ; 
That withers the leaves on the 

forest tree ; 
That fetters with ice all the north- 
ern sea ; 

95 



THE GOLD-SEEKERS 

That chills all the green on the 
fair earth's breast, 

And as certainly kills as the un- 
stayed pest. 

It lies in the hands of the man 
who'd sell 

His hold on his life for an ice- 
bound hell. 

What care we for the fevered 
brain 

That's filled with ravings and 
thoughts insane, 

So long as we hold 

In our hands the gold? — 

The glistening, glittering, ghastly 
gold 

That comes at the end of the 
hunger and cold; 

That comes at the end of the 
awful thirst ; 

That comes through the pain and 
torture accurst 

Of limbs that are racked and minds 
o'erthrown, 

The gold lies there and is all our 
own, 

96 



THE GOLD-SEEKERS 

Be we mighty or meek, 
If we do but seek. 

For the hunger is sweet and the 
cold is fair 

To the man whose riches are past 
compare; 

And the o'erthrown mind is as 
good as sane, 

And a joy to the limbs is the rack- 
ing pain, 

If the gold is there. 

And they say, if you fail, in your 
dying day 

All the tears, all the troubles, are 
wiped away 

By the fever-thought of your shat- 
tered mind 

That a cruel world has at last 
grown kind ; 

That your hands o'errun with the 
clinking gold, 

With nuggets of weight and of 
worth untold, 

And your vacant eyes 

Gloat o'er the riches of Paradise ! 
G 97 



ODE TO A POLITICIAN 

All hail to thee, O son of Mollis ! 

All hail to thee, most high Borean 
lord! 

The lineal descendant of the Winds 
art thou. 

Child of the Cyclone, 

Cousin to the Hurricane, 

Tornado's twin, 
All hail ! 

The zephyrs of the balmy south 
Do greet thee ; 

The eastern winds, great Boston's 
pride, 

In manner osculate caress thy mas- 
sive cheek ; 

Freeze onto thee, 

And at thy word throw off con- 
gealment 

And take on a soft caloric mood ; 

And from afar, 

From Afric's strand, 
98 



ODE TO A POLITICIAN 

Siroccan greetings come to thee ! 

The monsoon and simoom, 

In the soft empurpled Orient, 

At mention of thy name 

Doff all the hats of Heathen- 
dom ! 

And all combined in one vast ag- 
gregation, 

Cry out hail, hail, thrice hail to 
thee, 

Who after years, and centuries, and 
cycles e'en, 

Hast made the winds incarnat 
» thee 
The visible expression in 

the flesh, 
Material and tangible, 

Of all that goes to make the ele- 
ment 

That rages, blusters, blasts, an 1 
blows ! 

And if the poet's mind speaks 
true, 

If he can penetrate their purposes 
at all, 

It is not far from their intent 
99 






ODE TO A POLITICIAN 



To lift thee on their broad Novem- 
ber wings 

So high 
That none but gods can ever hope 
Again to gaze upon thy face! 
ioo 



SOME ARE AMATEURS 

Shakespeare was partly wrong — 
the world's a stage, 
This is admitted by the bard's 
detractors. 
Had William seen some Hamlets 
of this age 
He'd not h; tiled all men 

upon it actors. 

IOI 



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